


Breathin

by Johnismyloveforever64



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Coma, Hospitalization, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 15:36:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnismyloveforever64/pseuds/Johnismyloveforever64
Summary: John Lennon has just been shot, and his boyfriend, Paul McCartney, is at his side. In a state of shock, Paul waits for news--any news--about his partner. He soon discovers that John is critical condition and may never wake up. Paul must cope with this news virtually alone and all he has is his hopes to hang on.





	Breathin

I could still see the smoke rising in the darkness, illuminated by the streetlights. My ears ringing, my heart race, I looked down, expecting to see a gaping hole in my chest. But there was nothing there. Rooted to the pavement, I couldn’t even turn my head to look to confirm what I already knew. 

**

The last time one of us ended up in hospital, they gave us a private waiting room. “We have to break it to the press,” Brian said slowly, “and we can’t have it getting out before then.” So, we were locked away in a small room, sworn to secrecy. 

But tonight, there was no time for strategy. I walked through those double doors and was immediately pulled down a corridor by the arm. A nurse pointed to an open door and shut it behind me. 

There was no point in secrecy either. Just outside my gaze, the scene repeats over and over again on a screen. The other patrons are glued to the television. A receptionist, sat at a typewriter, has abandoned her typing and stares at her radio, waiting for answers. I can’t even watch their faces as it might give something away that I’m not ready to hear. 

“Mr. McCartney?” I look up, and everyone is staring at me. In the doorway, a beleaguered man in a white coat is waiting. Slowly, I rise to my feet; the eyes follow me. 

I march straight head, clear my throat, and muster a, “good evening.” 

“Good morning,” he returns, directing me down the corridor. 

We walk together in silence. My heart racing, my hands shaking, I keep telling myself turn back. 

About midway down, he stops in front of a door marked “W. L.” with paper over the windows. 

“If he’s in there, I’m guessing he’s alive.”

“He is alive, but he is still in critical condition.”

“Will he make it?” 

Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it. not that he would or would not make it but that it was a question. I can still remember where we were standing at this moment twenty years ago—a lifetime ago. 

 

We only had a week left in Hamburg, but no one told us that. Our 2 AM show had ended hours ago, but we were still awake, still feeding off the energy of the crowd. The bars were closed, and we had mistakenly paid the check at the diner—thinking we were ready for bed. With nothing left but to return home, we sat on a park bench outside our flat. It had started to snow, and we found ourselves catching snowflakes our tongues like a couple of kids. 

“Hold my hand,” he said. He held out a gloved hand, and I took it. It was the first time we held hands in public in years. I waited for the kiss. But he just sat beside me, shivering a little in the cold, his cheeks pink, and his eyes glowing in the street lights. 

“That’s it,” I piped up, “You only wanna hold my hand?”

To that, he gently kissed my hand, his lips soft. Leaning in close, he whispered in my ear, “I always wanna hold your hand, but there’s never the right moment. There’s always someone watching us.”

“Yeah,” I breathed, squeezing his hand tighter. He pivoted so he was facing me. 

“I hate hiding. I hate waiting weeks—months—years even for moments like this.”

“What do you want me to do?”

He pressed his free hand to my cheek. 

“I want to hold your hand.”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna hold your hand.”

“And I don’t wanna let go,” I responded, taking his other hand and kissing him. 

 

“It’s too early to tell.”

“What?”

“There’s a possibility that he may never wake up.” 

I faced the papered windows as my eyes filled with tears. 

“Can I see him?” It came out as one nasally sound. 

He gave me one kick nod. Lip quivering, I marched inside. I watched as my feet moved across the linoleum unsure how I was moving, and even less sure how I was moving forward. 

I couldn’t look up. I could hear him breathing, but I just couldn’t look at him. A minute ago, I would’ve killed to see him, and now I couldn’t bear to look. 

“John,” I called out, my voice small and shrill. But he didn’t stir. “Come on, John,” and my eyes fell on the figure at the center of the room, lying motionless in the bed. His arms were at his sides. There was an IV strapped to each wrist. A heart monitor was clipped to his finger and taped to his chest. There were all sorts of tubes strapped to his body. He was so pale and so fragile. His skin looked like paper. 

“John,” I said again. “John, I’m right here,” I told him. “And I’m not letting go.” 

I squeezed his hand. He didn’t take it. It was like his hands were made of stone. They’d lost much of their softness, their warmth.  
Tears in my eyes, I lifted my head up. I looked at the soft, pale face before me. 

“John,” I said again, hoping to get something. 

Gently, I pressed my lips to his, kissing him gently. His lips were like stone; it was like kissing a statue. All the softness, all the warmth, and that subtle movement against my own had disappeared. It was like my John, my John who I have loved since I was 15 was just gone. I was looking at him, touching even, but he didn’t feel real. 

Urgently, I kissed him again. When I got no response, the tears spilled over, rolling down my cheeks. I pulled away, my lip quivering, but I didn’t let go. I couldn’t let my fingers untangle with his. 

“If you can hear me,” I continued, my voice thick, “I-I want you to know that you are everything to me. Everything that I am and everything that I am going to be is because of you.” I gently kissed his hand. 

And as I pulled away, I felt a tickle on the back of my hand. I looked and his thumb was pressed against mine. Blinking away tears, I squeezed his hand harder, and his thumb wrapped around mine. 

“John?” I exclaimed, tears streaming down my face. There was still no response. I don’t know what I expected—for him to sit up and start talking, cracking jokes as he always did. 

But he just laid there, his breathing labored, and his heart monitor beeping steadily. I kissed his hand once again. “And don’t worry my love. I won’t let go. Not until you get back.”


End file.
